Brooke Pastro’s Story

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My first two concussions, a fall off my bike and a minor run-in with a ski lift, weren’t too bad; but my third concussion, a slip and fall at a tailgate party, left me in pain and severely depressed for about nine months.

It all happened so fast. I was tailgating before a concert, socializing with friends, then stumbled on something in the parking lot. My margarita flew and I was on the pavement. An ambulance took me to the emergency room where a doctor told me not to worry; I’d be just fine. Only I wasn’t.

Weeks past and I was still hurting bad. Plagued with constant headaches, irritated by loud noises and bright lights, I just wanted to stay in bed. My family and friends would encourage me to get out and re-join the living, but I didn’t want to. My bed was my sanctuary and the outside world was bright, noisy and scary. “Just leave me alone,” I implored.

I felt like nobody knew what I was enduring. There wasn’t a cast or bandages or any other tell-tale sign of an injury; I looked perfectly normal to everyone. Too bad they couldn’t look inside me and see the discomfort, the anxiety, the despair.

I sought additional medical advice; but there wasn’t much they could do. A stint at physical therapy wasn’t the panacea I had hoped for. There was so much noise at the PT gym it often made me feel worse.

All I wanted to do at Christmas, five months later, was cry. Cranking out a couple of holiday meals, something I have done effortlessly for decades, became a herculean effort. I sat in the corner with a pair of noise cancelling headphones -- unable to join the party.